


Awakening

by Katie_Dub



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Inspired by Being Human UK, Roommates, Supernatural Elements, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24651160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katie_Dub/pseuds/Katie_Dub
Summary: It’s important that you know something from the start: the world you know is stranger and more terrible than you can imagine. Let’s not beat about the bush--here there be monsters.In amongst all the madness a vampire, a werewolf and a ghost share a house. And that is where the fun begins.A Being Human AU
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 30
Kudos: 40
Collections: Black Swans & Red Hooks, Captain Swan Supernatural Summer 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the warnings - this is a love story with a happy ending, but it gets dark at times - if you want to read but are wary, come say hi on tumblr [@katie-dub](https://katie-dub.tumblr.com/).
> 
> If anyone is familiar with the show Being Human UK - particularly season 4 - you may have an idea of what's coming.

It’s important that you know something from the start: the world you know is stranger and more terrible than you can imagine. Let’s not beat about the bush--here there be monsters.

They hide in plain sight. You’re probably thinking this is a metaphor for all the criminals walking free in the world. You wish.

We’re here to talk about the real monsters now: the vampires, the werewolves, the ghosts.

This isn’t a joke, it’s no myth, they’re real. They live amongst us. Contrary to popular rumour, vampires don’t combust in the daylight, sparkle in the sun or run from garlic. Werewolves don’t crave raw meat, have any lupine qualities in human form or piss in the corner - unless they’re wasted. Ghosts well, sorry to say, but chances are you’ve never seen one. Humans can’t. Usually.

Our story is about a very specific monster--Killian Jones, AKA Captain Hook, vampire. He’s a polite, conscientious and law-abiding citizen defying all those terrifying vampire cliches and only feeding on animal blood. 

Except when he isn’t.

When Hook comes out to play lock up your daughters, grab your crucifixes and stock up on holy water because shit’s about to get messy.

Our story begins with Killian living a human life. Steady job, bills, roommate. Captain Hook has been dormant for 50 years now, surely the world at large can be in no danger of him resurfacing?

Think again.

Killian’s out in the midday crowds in Nottingham city centre. He does this sometimes — wanders into town to fight the hordes of worker bees out in search of lunch. He doesn’t need food — although sometimes he likes the taste of it — which means he mostly goes for the people watching. 

It’s always busy. There are the students feeling self-important and independent with their Student Loans paying for lunch, the school kids skiving off, the harassed mothers clutching their toddlers’ hands. The Big Issue sellers, the chuggers, the poor buggers engaged in the thankless task of handing out flyers. And all the hundreds upon thousands of people rushing from their offices to get food or money or whatever else they can think of.

Killian particularly enjoys the people racing to get the apparently vegan food offered by Greggs. He hums the tune of “The Greatest Pies in London” from Sweeney Todd as he watches them queuing up, chuckling to himself.

There’s just something so very _human_ about it all and he is so very not, and yet, when he’s amongst them all, somehow it makes him feel like he _could_ be human. Just a little bit.

Killian heads for 200° Coffee, his new favourite place. The cafe could feel warm, cosy, and inviting on a cold day with its low ceilings and heavy dark wooden furniture. But today? Today the sun is shining high and the space feels oppressive. 

Still, they make incredible coffee. 

Call him a hipster for shunning the sickly sweet concoctions available in the ubiquitous chains that grace the high street in favour of locally-roasted brews, but this doesn’t feel “hip” to Killian. He’s an old man, and this coffee? This tastes like _real coffee,_ old-fashioned coffee, the kind he enjoyed as a young vampire, pre-industrial revolution when hand-roasted was the only way coffee came. If that makes him a hipster, he’s fine with that.

So he gets them to fill up his reusable cup — disposable loses its appeal when you know you’ll still be alive in a century — and settles himself down next to some teens in the Market Square to enjoy his coffee and watch the world pass by. 

He’s vaguely aware that some music has started up, but doesn’t really notice it until it’s turned up loud enough for him to hear the beat. A girl with cool umber skin stands up, her friends cheering her on, and starts to dance. She must be a professional in training. While Killian flatters himself that he can dance, he cannot move like _this,_ feet moving in complex patterns and her body twisting and turning elegantly. 

He’s started nodding his head to the rhythm of the music when he catches half a glance of someone he knew long ago — not a ghost, alas, one of his fellow blood-thirsty brethren.

But he looks closer and they're gone.

Still though, that glimpse was enough for a deep sense of unease to settle in his stomach. If his heart were still beating, he is sure it would be pounding now, readying him for a fight.

Something is coming.

Or _someone._

“Is everything alright, Killian?”

Belle’s question jolts his brooding thoughts away from the person — the _vampire_ — he saw earlier. He looks up as if seeing her for the first time, despite her practically living with him by virtue of dating his roommate, Will. Belle’s eyes are full of concern, shaded with a dash of wariness. She’s a smart woman, perhaps one of the sharpest he’s met, which is saying something considering he’s three centuries old.

She sees a lot for a human.

“Hmm?”

“Are you OK?” She nods to the mug of tea that he’s holding, despite barely being aware of it. “You’ve not touched your tea.”

“Aye, just thinking.”

“Brooding more like,” she retorts, raising an eyebrow at him over her own dainty china teacup.

Killian instantly slips on his mask — the persona of charm and charisma that sometimes he just needs to get through the day. A devilishly handsome smile can distract from all manner of wicked deeds.

“Whatever could I have to brood about when I’m with you, my good lady?” he asks. She rolls her eyes.

“Hands to yourself, mate, she’s not with you,” Will says as he strides into the room and flops down next to Belle. He leans into her for a kiss, but she looks at him sharply, eyes narrowed in annoyance. It’s at times like this that Killian wonders what a woman as brilliant as Belle could see in Will.

 _“She_ can speak for herself,” she reprimands.

“Of course you can,” Will says sincerely, eyes shiny with admiration, “sorry, love.”

“Yes, you must forgive Will for acting a mite territorial. It’s in his blood you see,” Killian says. “Just be grateful that he isn’t pissing on your leg.”

Will growls at him and Killian forgets the face that’s been haunting him all day in his childish delight at Will’s reaction.

“You still coming out tonight?” Belle cuts in, distracting them and easing the tension in the room with just one question.

“Aye, wouldn’t miss it.”

Killian’s in Rescue Rooms listening to the nu jazz ambient world electronica of Bonobo’s warm up act. He’s not entirely sure he likes them — their sound tending more towards rambling shambles than the balanced, eclectic mash up he thinks they’re aiming for. 

Still the music is a damn sight better than seeing that face again. This time there’s no doubting it.

Bae.

His blood, of course, can’t run cold, but as a turn of phrase it’s nevertheless an exceptionally effective description of the exact feeling he has just now. Because if Bae is here than that means —

They’ve found him.

Killian can’t decide whether to confront Bae — perhaps stake him for good measure — or simply ignore him. Getting out isn’t an option. Even if he were to leave the bar, he’d have to leave the city at least, the country at best, to make sure that they don’t find him. This time. That would be the cowardly choice, and Killian Jones is no coward.

The Dark Ones are coming and he will be here to face them.

He always did love a challenge.

He steels himself to greet his old friend when a spectacularly drunk reveller stumbles into the group standing beside Killian, knocking over drinks and people as he goes. Killian ends up on the floor with at least one person on top of him in the resulting chaos.

“Here,” a disembodied voice says, and a hand is extended to him. He looks up into the face of an angel — or perhaps a goddess — with an ethereal glow lighting up her long, golden locks.

He lets her pull him out of the tangled mess of drunks. Fighting to get out alone would have been hard enough even if he still had both hands. And besides, it’s an opportunity to get closer to his mysterious saviour.

When he’s stood beside her, the stage lighting no longer catches her hair in that otherworldly way, reducing her status from that of heavenly to mere mortal beauty.

She’s no less stunning for it.

“Thank you, milady,” he says, bending to kiss her hand, his eyes fixed on her face.

She rolls her eyes, but he can hear her heart beating even over the music blaring out in the club, and her cheeks are flushed. He’s made an impact.

“Sure, whatever,” she says with a shrug, pulling her hand from his. 

It’s an effort to let her go. Killian is a strong believer in good form, with so many willing lasses, why pursue the uninterested ones? They’re far too much effort. But that doesn’t mean a dark part of him — the worst part of him — doesn’t get a thrill out of seduction, of pushing a woman to lose their fight against decorum and give into lust.

Hook wants to play.

Killian forces himself to drop Emma’s hand though he can’t quite bring himself to move away.

“I’m Killian, can I get you a drink?” He has to lean in a little, to raise his voice to be heard over the drone of the saxophone being tortured onstage. He’s not quite speaking into her ear, but he’s closer to her, he can see the muscles in her neck move as she breathes, can hear her blood pulsing through her veins. He’s aware of her scent despite the cocktail of sweat, bitter beers, tangy wine, and sweet cocktails, not to mention the smells of hot food wafting from the food station at one corner of the bar. They don’t entice him as they do the other revellers, not the way she does, stirring a hunger he hasn’t wanted to satisfy in so long. Now though? Now he’s _ravenous._

She eyes him and he pulls back, self-consciously scratching behind his ear as he struggles to rein in his desires. She’s definitely assessing him, and he finds himself desperately hoping that he passes muster.

Then, with a nod to herself, she replies, “Sure. I’m Emma and I’ll have a whisky.”

They weave their way to the bar, and, crowded though it is, are able to flag down a bartender and get their drinks in a matter of minutes. Call it luck or call it Killian’s vampiric charisma.

Drinks in hand they push their way towards the communal tables, and on finding them already full, Killian nods towards the doors where people spill out of the club and into the smoking area outside. Emma turns and heads for them, but Killian finds his way blocked.

“Sorry, mate, can I just —” Killian trails off as he looks up at Baelfire. He had the misfortune to be turned at the age of just 16, leaving his looks frozen at that age. Sadly so was his personality.

Well, not totally.

Eternal life does grant some measure of wisdom and maturity. But still, those turned in puberty do have a certain tendency to erratic acts and rash decision-making, no matter how many centuries pass them by.

“Hello Killian.”

Emma hovers behind the unwelcome intruder. “Should I —”

“Go on, love,” Killian speaks over Baelfire’s shoulder, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He waits until she’s gone before snarling, “what do you want, Bae?”

“It’s Neal now,”

“Of course it is,” Killian sighs, it’s the little things that make these teen vampires so grating. “Do you want something, _Neal?_ I’m a little busy at present.” He gestures after Emma with his glass.

“Just letting you know that I’m here, ready to take back control, Captain.” Neal salutes languidly, smirking in a manner that completely undercuts whatever respect is meant to be conveyed by the gesture.

Killian barely notices the surly attitude, because a chasm of foreboding has opened inside him.

A drunk stumbles into him, and Neal nearly loses his balance; his eyes turn black and his vampire fangs spring out even as the man slurs, “Sorry, mate.” Neal shakes his head, blinking and his eyes and teeth return to normal. “God, I can’t wait for the Dark Ones to arrive, then the humans will be sorry, right Hook?”

These words snap Killian from his daze. “Quite. If that’s everything, I have someone to get back to.” He doesn’t wait for Neal’s reply, merely pushes past him to head outside.

“Until next time, Hook,” Neal calls out.

He doesn’t look back. Nothing good ever came from paying attention to that vampire.

He finds Emma sitting on a picnic table, smoking a cigarette. Groups of hipsters, musicians and art students are gathered around, drinking and pontificating as only those who have recently discovered Foucault and devoted their life to pretending they understood him truly can, but Emma is set apart from them all.

Killian sits next to her, takes a sip of his drink then sets it down beside him. He pulls his own pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, removes one and returns the pack to his pocket. “Got a light?” he asks her.

She pulls out her lighter and flicks it on. Though she holds it out to him, he still has to lean into her. She smells of smoke, whiskey, cinnamon —

And blood.

It’s a relief to pull back, fag in hand, and take a long drag, pulling the nicotine deep into his lungs. It’s not as good as blood, nothing is. But it’ll do.

They sit in silence, listening to the faint sounds of music and the overly loud conversations of the drugged up and the drunk around them.

He’s aware of her presence beside him.

The way she’s hunched over, as though trying to make herself small, insignificant. The way she fiddles with her long hair that’s falling into her face on one side, tucked behind her ear on the other. The way her lips pout around her cigarette.

He’s enchanted by her extraordinary ordinariness, her dishevelled beauty, her ability to just sit and just be here next to him without talking.

“New to Nottingham?” he finally asks Emma, trying to hide how desperately he wants to learn more about her.

“Yeah,” she says, then throws her cigarette to the ground and jumps down, stomping on to it to make sure it’s out.

“Well, fuck you then,” he says with a smirk, as though he wasn’t secretly bitterly annoyed that she’s chosen now to leave.

She rolls her eyes but is smiling. “Everyone’s gone,” she says gesturing around at the now deserted smoking area, “think Bonobo’s up.”

He knocks back his whiskey, stubbing his cigarette out in the glass and follows her back inside.

Intimate isn’t a word he normally uses to describe gigs — at least, not one of this size — exhilarating, sensual, and normally, sweaty, are more the words. But dancing at a club with Emma? That is undeniably, overwhelmingly, _intimate._

They are dancing close together, the crowded venue giving them little space to move apart from each other, even if they wanted to. 

Her back is to his front and at first he resists the urge to hold her — old fashioned manners being hard to shake, even after several centuries on this earth. But someone jostles them together and he reaches out to stop her crashing into the people in front of her, and, well, he may have been a good man once, but he definitely can’t be accused of that anymore. 

So he leaves his hands on her hips. She’s warm, firm, he can feel the strength of her muscles beneath her thin shirt. And if he allows his hands to drift beneath her top when it rises as she dances, her soft skin hot against his palms, who could blame him?

They gradually move closer and closer together, until she leans back against his chest as they sway to the rhythms of the music. His whole body is alive with her — alert to her presence — but they aren’t grinding against each other, that word feels too crass for what they are sharing.

She overwhelms his senses — the way her lips glisten as she wets them with her tongue, the sound of her breath quickening and heart rate rising as they dance, the feel of her sensual swaying to the beat.

He longs to know how she tastes.

But nothing good ever comes of that.

His desire, his _need,_ for her is growing and he is losing the ability to remember why he can’t give into it when she spins around in his arms and pulls his lips to hers.

She tastes delicious. Whisky strengthened with smoke and sin as her tongue sweeps into his mouth, leading him to places he should not follow.

They’re toeing the line between acceptable displays of affection and public indecency but he wants so much more, a fierce desperation seizing him.

He pulls back, intending to suggest that they go somewhere private when he spots Bae — no, _Neal_ — smirking across the room, raising his glass to Killian. It’s unsettling.

Then Emma drags her lips along his jaw, to suck hard on the spot just below his ear and everything melts away.

“Want to come back to my hotel?” she murmurs into his ear.

He’s never wanted anything more.

The trip to her hotel is a haze of dodging lairy yobs shouting at women in four inch heels and kisses that have Hook clawing at him, hissing that he should just _take Emma._ Fuck her in the street and who gives a fuck who sees. He’ll slaughter the lot.

Killian doesn’t know if he can do this.

He’s never felt so much so fast and it’s making him lose his grip on reality. Killian giving way to the demon inside, and he can’t, he _can’t_ —

He can’t stop.

He wants Emma too much to turn back. No matter what it costs him.

Or more likely, what it costs everyone else.

He manages to wait until they’re inside her room. Just. He tears the clothes from her body, but only stops to free himself before taking her up against the door of her room, hard and fast. Being inside her at last is enough to take the edge off. For a moment. Then he grinds into her desperately, his hands gripping her hips hard. The gentleman inside hopes that’s enough to make her come because he needs this too much to take his time. He’ll make it up to her later.

She’s panting, whimpering. Her head is thrown back against the door, leaving her neck on display for him.

_Bite her._

He won’t. He can’t. He thrusts harder.

_Bite her._

He needs to come, to drive off the madness, to feel bliss. So he fucks harder, like her life depends on it.

_Bite her now._

He’s better than his demon, but only just. Her muscles squeeze him and he knows she’s not there yet. But he is. He needs this.

Euphoria floods through him, drives out the demon, empties his mind. He drops his head to her shoulder, overcome with relief.

He slips from her, looks up and sees the disappointment that he’s sure men would miss.

“Forgive me milady.”

There’s a flicker of surprise. She didn’t expect him to notice, to care. She shakes her head. “It’s fine.”

“No,” he says, shifting his hands to just below her ass and lifting her up. She squeals and wraps her legs around him. “It’s really not.” He carries her to the bed and places her down gently, reverently, with a soft kiss to her lips, a world away from how he pounded into her just moments before. “And I intend to make it up to you.”

As he talks, he undresses, eyes on Emma. He delights in the way her breasts are heaving and her gaze keeps darting down to his lips, his chest, and his cock.

He sinks to his knees before her and she lets out a little gasp of shock.

He wants to rage at every man she’s been with who denied her this pleasure. Who denied _themselves_ his pleasure. What fools not to know the joy of parting Emma’s legs and watching her face fill with anticipation and delight as they kiss their way to her glorious cunt.

He’ll never understand it. The men who don’t appreciate the joy of giving; their petty insecurities tricking them into thinking this is an act of submission.

He’s the one with the power.

The power to make women twitch, literally losing control of their own bodies. He’s barely started and already he needs to hold Emma’s hips steady.

He can turn the most prim and pious of housewives into a debauched sinner with a slight flick of his tongue. He can turn the most stoic of women into a screaming, writhing mess, begging him to keep sucking, _right there._

Emma’s just the same.

The first lick of her clit earns him a stifled gasp.

As he keeps going, keeps working at her with his tongue, she lets out breathy moans that soon give way to pleading and panting for breath. 

He doubts she even knows what she’s saying as she grabs his hair and pulls him into her. She screams his name.

Hook pulls back, the sound of her blood ringing in his ears.

He looks at that spot on her inner thigh — the one he likes to bite down on, sucking the starlight-sweetened blood — and licks her from his lips. So many of his conquests loved it, begging him to suck harder, so overwhelmed with lust that they couldn’t feel him sucking their life from their veins.

Maybe Emma would love it too, maybe —

Killian shakes his head.

He should run away and leave her right now. But he wants to drive Hook out of his head altogether and he’s so turned on that he can’t think straight.

He gets to his feet slowly. He can hear her blood coursing through her and it’s either take her blood or just take _her._

How can he do this? But how can he _not?_

He leans over her, his good hand sliding along the hot skin of her inner thigh, fingers sliding through their juices before he even reaches the top. He slides his prosthetic higher, across her bare stomach and tickling up to one nipple. He hates that he can’t actually feel it, so he crawls over her to lick at her other nipple. She arches into him and his cock brushes against her wetness.

God he wishes this were like in the movies, all seamlessly sliding together in perfect harmony. But he has to sit back on his haunches so he can guide himself into her. And he wants to be soft, to worship this beauty, but he just can’t.

He drives into her hard, taking her roughly.

They both gasp.

She’s still spasming in ecstasy, her cunt rippling and squeezing around his cock. It’s incredible. He presses down hard on her clit with his thumb, wanting to wind her back up before she’s even come down, wanting to feel her come again, wanting her to _ache_ with pleasure.

It’s Hook taking almost vindictive joy out of overwhelming Emma with pleasure. Killian’s sliding into his old ways without even noticing.

He should go.

But he wants — oh he wants her.

“Emma,” he pants. An urge to slap her rises up when she’s too sluggish to reply quickly. Fuck. He grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him, some part of him wincing at how rough he is. She blinks up at him lazily, her eyes swimming in bliss.

He can feel the panic rising now.

He needs control.

“Tell me you like it rough,” he growls at her. 

He should go, he shouldn’t risk letting Hook out like this. But he’s still inside her, and he hasn’t actually stopped thumbing at her clit. He can feel her next orgasm coming on and he needs to come with her.

Just come and go as fast as fucking possible.

Emma’s grin is wicked as she leans up to whisper in his ear, “I like it rough.”

He pulls out of her, making them both moan and wince as they separate. He cannot just fuck her with abandon while he’s sat like that. So he leaps from the bed, steadying himself on the floor right beside it. He grabs her by the ankles and pulls until her ass is flush with his cock, throwing her feet over his shoulders. She yelps and he is alarmed for the split second it takes him to see that she’s smirking. He lines himself up and slams into her. And again. And again. He finds her clit and pinches it, hard.

This time he sees stars with her.

Killian wants to stay here with her, to bring her down slowly, glorying in how that feels. He wants to gently clean her and wrap his arms around her. He wants to kiss her tenderly and just be with her.

But Hook is lurking, lusting for blood.

So he forces himself to pull out and look away. He hurries to get dressed, ignoring Emma’s heartbeat even as it rings in his ears. 

He steps into his boxers. _Ba-bump._

He yanks his jeans back on. _Ba-bump._ Zips himself back up. _Ba-bump._

He pulls on his shirt. _Ba-bump._ Doing up the buttons is torture. _Ba-bump._ He fumbles every last one. _Ba-bump._

He cannot look at her, does not dare, until he looks around for his jacket and finds her standing before him in just his leather jacket with a mischievous grin on her face.

_Oh God, that’s hot._

She closes the gap between them, runs a finger along his jaw. “Leaving already?”

“Aye. I need to go. Sorry, that was —” He breaks off, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on hers. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Fucking fantastic,” she whispers in his ear.

She steps back, pulls his jacket off and hands it back to him. He focuses on putting it back on, if he looks at her while she’s naked he won’t be able to leave.

“I put my number in your phone,” she says. He looks up in surprise. He didn’t expect another chance with her. “I’m only here for a few weeks. Give me a call. Unless that was just a one time thing.” She shrugs, affecting disinterest and turns back to the bed.

He grabs her hand and spins her back into him, surging forward to give her one last searing kiss.

“Goodbye, Emma,” he says, and hurries out into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Previously on Awakening_  
>  We met the vampire Killian Jones - AKA Captain Hook - and he met a woman, someone to make him feel like a human like any other. Lucky her.
> 
> "He’s never felt so much so fast and it’s making him lose his grip on reality. Killian giving way to the demon inside, and he can’t, he _can’t —_
> 
> He can’t stop.
> 
> He wants Emma too much to turn back. No matter what it costs him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains scenes that you may find distressing - please note the warnings - the story will have a happy ending, but if you have any concerns about the content, feel free to message me on tumblr [@katie-dub](https://katie-dub.tumblr.com/)

Neal’s sure there’s something wrong from the first moment he spies his former mentor across the bar. There’s a certain air to him that feels almost — he shudders even thinking of this — almost _human._

Hook’s getting cosy with a pretty white blonde, it’s not the first time Neal’s seen the vampire in seduction mode, but this feels different. Hook’s lost that certain swagger, and it’s rather dull to watch him simper at the cow. It’s something of a relief to see him finally pull the trigger and lead her out.

Unless —

Neal slips out after him, he just — he _needs_ to be sure, to see if the great and terrible Captain Hook has gone soft.

It will be a blow to The Dark Ones and all their plans if he has. Although Neal has ways to remind Hook who he truly is, should it be necessary.

It’s tedious, staking out the hotel, waiting for Hook to leave, although he’s rewarded for his patience when the vampire himself emerges.

Neal watches from the shadows as Killian leaves the hotel, smelling clean and not a speck of blood on him.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, _I knew it._

This is not the vampire he once knew. This _man_ is dry and apparently interested in a human. How terribly dull.

He would have to do something about that.

***

Killian wakes up feeling awful.

This is true, as far as it goes, but it thoroughly fails to convey the true extent of how utterly, mind-numbingly, excruciatingly terrible he feels.

He’s parched. There’s the dehydration from all the libations he consumed the night before, but that’s just the start. It goes much deeper than that, to something far, far worse. This is the demon that wears his skin awake and shrieking for nourishment, demanding one thing —

Blood.

It won’t be appeased with water, dulled with alcohol or fooled with pig’s blood. This demon’s thirst cannot be quenched with even the finest O- stolen right from the hospital stores at the QMC, courtesy of a flirtatious smile and a well-chosen compliment.

No, only hot, gushing blood straight from the arteries of a buxom beauty will do. (Yes, technically even a schlubby middle-aged man has blood in him, but vampires have standards and that really wouldn’t suit his aesthetic.)

If truth be told, the demon is calling out for a certain woman’s blood: Emma.

The human part of Killian — the one who amuses himself by reading vampiric literature and mocking its multiple inaccuracies — is pained at how terribly _Twilight_ he sounds. He isn’t pining for his “own personal heroin”, and resents that he can see shades of that mess of a so-called romantic hero in himself. No, this is the darker part of himself furious that his better nature won, that he left that woman alive when he wanted to taste every part of her.

The demon claws at Killian. He feels itchy on the inside; driven half to madness by the thought of finding and consuming her.

So of course this brings terrible guilt.

What was he thinking? Taking her to bed like he’s a normal man, one who could leave her, sated and content, both having taken what they needed from the encounter and now able to move on.

Hook is nothing short of obsessive — the slightest sign that Killian feels something deeper for a woman than lust and his demon fights to destroy them utterly. He swings from meaningless encounters to near-celibacy, lest he taunt his demonic side with someone special to destroy. He learnt the hard way that it’s the best — the only — choice he has.

What was it about Emma? Why had he broken his rules for a night with her?

He already regrets it.

He hopes that she doesn’t live to regret it too.

Killian tears at his heart and soul for his foolishness while Hook tears at his body.

Not the best start to the day.

He staggers down stairs and into the kitchen to wash away some of his agony with steaming hot coffee. Belle doesn’t look up from the book she’s reading while she sips her tea — probably something laced with roses with a dash of milk — from a dainty porcelain cup. Will eyes Killian as he slurps at his builder’s brew in an “ay up e duck” mug. Well, they do say opposites attract.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Will drawls, glowering at Killian.

“Pardon?” Killian makes a point of choosing long words when Will’s mad at him.

“You look like shite,” Will clarifies. He sniffs the air like a dog, lip curled in disgust. “You smell like it too.”

Killian rubs at the rings on his right hand with his thumb, feeling the familiar grooves grounding him. His jaw ticks with the effort of biting back a retort as he instead starts his coffee-making routine. He only makes it as far as filling the kettle with water when the inquisition starts. 

“What happened to that girl?”

Killian slams the kettle onto its base and flicks it on, pausing a moment to force down Hook who’s snarling, ready to fight.

“Girl?” he asks, slowly turning to face Will’s accusing glare with an exaggerated look of confusion. “There was no girl last night. A woman? Aye, I did meet a stunning one of those.”

“You are such a wanker,” Will huffs. 

“You left with a human female last night,” Belle cuts in, not taking his shit, “what happened to her?”

Killian leers at Belle. “Do you want positions? If Will’s failing to satisfy you, I’d be happy to lend a hand.”

Belle’s face doesn’t even twitch, but Killian can’t find it in himself to care, He holds her stare, acutely aware of the sound of the kettle slowly coming to a boil behind him. 

“You couldn’t handle me, old man,” she says at last, her voice almost entirely devoid of emotion.

“Vampirism may have given me experience, but as you can see, I’ve retained my youthful glow — and my stamina.” He gives Belle an exaggerated wink, which earns him an eye roll.

Sure that the inquisition is over, he turns back to his coffee making routine - it’s more of a ritual, a moment of calm that he desperately needs in his current state.

“Been a while since you took anyone home is all,” Will states, coming to lean against the counter and watch Killian. He doesn’t like the inspection.

“Keeping tabs on my sex life?” Killian doesn’t give Will the satisfaction of looking at him, instead pulling one of his simple black mugs from the cupboard. “Didn’t know you cared, mate.”

“I care if you’re biting people,” Will snaps. “You only pull when you really want blood.”

_Bite her._

The memory is both overwhelming and entirely unwelcome. He drags his hand across his face, as though the act could scrub it from his brain. He sighs and reaches for his jar of coffee.

“Can’t a vampire just be horny?” Killian replies, but quickly realises that he doesn’t have the energy for the act. “You’d smell any blood on me.”

“I knew you’d be like this —” Will groans and turns to Belle “ — didn’t I tell you he’d be like this?”

“Annoyed that you can’t just leave me the fuck alone?” He pulls open the cutlery drawer roughly, noisily searching for his coffee scoop and teaspoon. He slams them down on the counter and scowls at Will. “I haven’t drunk from a living soul in 50 years, I think it’s more than fair that I’m offended that you’re treating me like a freshly turned vampire with no self-control.”

The noise that Will makes is hard to define, a huffing groan of exasperation with a hint of a growl to it. It’s not hard to interpret the look on his face though, as he shakes his head at Belle.

Killian glares at them both, glad that their questions have stopped for the moment at least, hoping this means he can finally make his coffee. He lets out a long breath, thumbing at his rings and reaches for his coffee jar.

“Killian —”

His eyes turn black and he hisses at Belle’s interruption — or at least, Hook wants to — he stares at her hand on his arm blankly, though his jaw ticks. “I’m making my coffee,” he says slowly, deliberately, a warning in his words. He does his best to ignore her but he can smell her blood and she may not be Emma, but she's human and —

Fuck. 

Coffee. That's all he needs to get past this. Coffee. 

“We just want to know — was she special, or do we need to be worried?”

Killian looks at Belle then, she speaks softly, but her face is grim. It’s clear that she is worried, whether she needs to be or not. He really doesn’t want to lie to her, but when he opens his mouth, Hook is in control. “Oh she was special, lass, very special indeed,” he says smoothly, and Killian feels revolted with himself.

When even coffee does little to soothe his agitation, Killian decides that the best way to handle his current mood is with a trip to see his old friend. Taking his frustration out on the dickhead formerly known as Baelfire, and hopefully discovering The Dark Ones’ plans sounds like an excellent diversion.

Killian's not even thinking about the fact that the other vampire might have blood — might expect _him_ to drink blood. The thought makes his skin crawl — he isn't —

He doesn’t need blood.

He thumbs at his rings. He needs to breathe.

Killian doesn’t know where to find _Neal,_ but he knows where to find someone who surely will. That’s how he finds himself striding into The Angel Microbrewery, once a grimy pub, home to sticky floors, underage drinkers and up and coming rockstars, now rebranded as a gastro pub.

The vampire he’s looking for likely never got the memo. 

Although, as Killian slides into the seat next to Smee, he can’t help but notice that Smee does fit in rather well with the hipster crowd. True, his red cap is lived-in instead of merely hand-knit, and his t-shirt is grimy with decades of wear instead of simply plucked from a charity shop, but all in all, he looks at home. It’s a good reminder that one can’t take anything for granted in this world.

Apparently even Smee can be trendy.

“Anything I can get for you?” An eager waiter appears the moment Killian is sat down — he’d be impressed if he weren’t so agitated that he could hear the waiter's blood circulating.

“Coffee,” Killian grunts, too out of sorts to try and be pleasant.

“Americano, cappuccino, la—”

“Black. Just plain, black coffee, OK?”

“No problem.” The waiter nods and Killian’s grateful he doesn’t push any kind of charm on him. “And for you, Mr Smee?”

Killian arches his brow at the use of “mister”.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Smee grins at the young man. “But Captain, are you sure you won’t eat something? The black pudding and avocado toast is to die for —” he drops his voice “— you can really taste the erythrocytes.”

“Coffee is fine,” Killian says tersely, clenching his fist to feel his rings biting into his skin, anything to avoid thinking about blood.

The waiter nods, spins on his heel and heads over to the bar. Smee waits until he’s gone to look over at Killian, intrigued. “Got a job for me, Captain?”

“Perhaps,” Killian replies with a devilish grin, watching as Smee cheerfully shovels food into his mouth. “Have you heard our friend Baelfire is back in town?”

Smee coughs, apparently startled mid-swallow by Killian’s question. It takes him a moment to recover and when he does he glares at Killian. “You did that on purpose!” he accuses. “But sadly, yes, I had heard that Neal is in town.”

“Excellent. Now where might I find him?”

 _The Park,_ Killian thinks to himself, _of course he’s in The fucking Park._

It would be easy to mistake his indignation for bitterness, seeing as his own residence is deep in the heart of student land. As lovely as his house might once have been, it’s hard to ignore that drunken revellers can be heard revelling at all times of the day and night throughout the academic year. And while his neighbours are perfectly pleasant, they have yet to remove the two seater sofa the house’s former residents had abandoned the year before. What started as a slightly pathetic mess was now something more akin to active germ warfare and he suspects its continued place on the street has more to do with sheer terror of contagious diseases than any laziness. 

The Park doesn’t tolerate soggy sofas. He suspects anyone engaging in that kind of lazy fly tipping would find themselves escorted off the estate and shot. At a minimum.

Killian prefers to live somewhere with a little more life, a sense of humour, some kind of _soul_. But still, he can’t deny he could do without the major health hazard next door.

It’s the ostentatiousness of taking up residence in The Park that gets under Killian’s skin. Choosing the well to do area that demands extra charges from their residences to maintain proper living standards and ensure that the streets are rubbish free at all times just screams “money to burn”. It’s so unnecessary.

Perhaps he’s a little bitter. Mostly because he tries so bloody hard to go unnoticed and undetected, and yet —

They’ve still found him.

Pricks.

He saunters up to the unnecessarily large door, with windows arching up above it to give the illusion that it’s larger still. He rolls his eyes and rings the doorbell; at least he knows that Hook is more likely to deliver a scathing put-down than any kind of compliment so his surly disinterest in whatever lavish details Neal has laid on will not seem out of character.

A dull-eyed blonde in a tight dress answers the door. Human. She’s pale — _too pale_ — her white skin having taken on an almost translucent quality. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail to draw attention to the holes on her neck. Multiple holes, not just two. No wonder she seems so lifeless. 

_God, I hope he’s giving her iron supplements,_ Killian thinks, as Hook perks up in interest at the willing blood donor. 

Killian pushes past her and does his best to ignore the smell of blood that surrounds him as he’s led into a tastefully decorated living room. 

Hook doesn’t fidget, he’s free from all cares, why would he? That means Killian has to fight against his need to _move_ — his skin is crawling and Hook is screaming at him for blood — only the slightest tick of his jaw displaying his deeper inner turmoil.

Neal is cosied up on a large sofa with a girl he suspects should have golden brown skin, though it seems to have been leached of its colour. The cause is clear, as Neal nuzzles at a wound he’s clearly just fed from.

Killian’s equal parts repulsed and aroused by the blood he can see smeared across her neck. It would be so easy to take some more for himself.

Just a taste.

“Hook!” Neal roars, noticing him and leaping to his feet, stumbling slightly in his blood-drunk haze. “So good to see you!” He leers uncomfortably close to Killian, unaware of the way he’s encroaching on his old friend’s personal space in his intoxication. Killian can smell the blood on Neal's breath, and god he _needs_ some. 

Neal clasps him on the shoulder and whirls around to the blonde who’d escorted him into the room. “Fetch the Captain here a drink —” the girl nods and makes to leave “— wait, wait. Not just anything, the good stuff I got in especially for him.” Another nod, and she goes.

Killian’s stomach lurches at the thought of what Neal had procured for “especially for him”. Hook perks up, hoping he’ll have a chance to drink straight from the source.

He should not have come.

“You were expecting me? Bit presumptuous.”

“Expecting? No! But hoping? Of course, it’s an honour.” Neal grins. There’s something … _off_ about Neal’s delivery. The eagerness and excitement appears to be all-too real, but there’s something underneath that that Killian can’t unpick.

“Interesting place you’ve chosen,” Killian says, looking around dismissively. “I would have chosen something a little more —” he waves a hand, searching for the right word “— refined, elegant.” He swipes at the mantelpiece beside him, inspecting for dust, eager to wind up Neal. Anything to distract from the gnawing need for blood. “Something with some real breathing room you know? But I suspect this was more in your price range.”

“It’s a three storey house with a basement and I’m in the process of acquiring the neighbouring properties as well. I’m sure everyone will agree that this is suitably _refined.”_ Neal’s tone is equal parts eager to please and fuck you for not being pleased. “Have you arranged better?”

Killian ignores him. He’s looking at the girl on the sofa who’s now leaning back looking woozy. She can’t be more than 16 — 17 at most. Killian _hates_ how young the girls Neal preys on are. At least this one is probably legal, but it gives Killian the creeps. Neal may look like a teenager, but he’s anything but, and it’s just … seedy, even for a vampire.

“You taking care of your donors?” Killian asks sharply, nodding towards the girl. “You can’t present Pan and Black with anaemic offerings.”

 _“Relax,”_ Neal drawls, “the cows” — Killian flinches internally at the crass word for the blood donors — “are well provided for, besides —” Neal nudges at Killian “— there’s plenty more where they came from.”

Killian’s going to be sick.

Fuck, he should not have come.

The blonde brings in a tray bearing two champagne saucers and a decanter all filled with blood. The sight sends shivers rippling across his body. This was a really fucking terrible idea.

Did he really think he could get out of here without drinking blood? Or has he just backed himself into a corner — knowing that he’d finally get some relief from this need?

_He really should not have come._

He hates himself for this.

The scent of the blood hits his nose — a cocktail of spice, smoke and a sweet, smooth edge of alcohol — and Hook _pounces._ It’s what he’s needed all day. He grabs a glass and gulps it down before Killian has time to even think about refusing.

And it is _good_ —

A burst of pleasure that explodes through him, consuming him, giving him _life._

Saving him from the agony of his own conflicting desires and regrets and every last mundane and human part of life as Killian Jones.

One taste is not enough. 

He grabs the second glass, too high to even consider how he must look to Neal. He manages to savour it this time. He sips slowly, making sure to taste every last blood cell — the red, the white, even the platelets — and the tang of the salty, oestrogen and oxytocin-laced plasma.

It is bliss.

There can be no greater rush than this. No woman, however stunning, can give him this release. This relief from pain, from torment, from everything except comfort and happiness and joy.

This is what he needs to be in this world, to live in it, this magic filling his veins, making him lighter than air. He’s filled with the purest light so that he must be glowing with it, sparkling like a goddamn Cullen, and the thought makes him laugh.

Why the fuck did he ever give up drinking blood?

“Fuck, Hook, how long since you fed?” Neal laughs. 

Hook should probably murder him for his insolence, but he doesn’t fucking care, he has half a mind to laugh himself he’s so utterly consumed with joy.

Neal grabs at the blonde, nodding towards Hook. “Fetch the Captain a proper glass, he clearly needs to drink.”

“You don’t want any?” He hears himself speak but the words sound far away, as though the blood has wrapped him in a blanket of euphoria, separating him from the world.

“Oh be my guest,” Neal smirks.

“Leave the glass then,” Hook says to the girl. 

He takes the decanter and lifts it to Neal, with a toast that he intends as mocking but his blood-drunk state muffles the effect. He drinks long and deep, gulping down happiness and light and life itself, revelling in the euphoria it brings to every last inch of his being.

“How is it?” Neal asks, smirking still, delighted with himself.

“Like drinking heaven itself,” he drawls, every word an effort spoken through layers of comfort and joy. “I don’t often complement my hosts, but that blood was like no other.”

“The first feed after a long stretch always is.”

“Aye, but that was — that was _euphoria_ — that was the coldest, purest drink on the hottest day. It was beyond _refreshing_ — oh it was so much more — it was restorative, a healing tonic, saving me from a long drought, reminding me of who I really am.”

“And unfortunately for me, driving you to poetry it seems.”

“Oh you wish you had poetry in your soul like mine, Neal. For what is poetry but the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings?”

Neal chuckles. “Well my dear Captain, you simply must meet the cow.”

Hook licks his lips, relishing the traces of blood that lingered. “Oh yes, perhaps she can spare some more of her sweet nectar. Perhaps I can take it from her anyway.”

Neal leads him down the stairs to the basement. He floats behind him, swigging from the decanter as he follows. Killian may have cared about the thought of a donor being kept below ground, but Hook is in full control and he frankly is too bloodied up to give a flying fuck — not that he would when sober either. 

“Behold, your Saviour!” Neal throws open a door and gestures inside.

Hook looks in and the sight he sees makes Killian nauseous.

Emma.

Or what’s left of her. She’s a mess of tubes leading to decanters, Neal has already drained every last drop from her.

There’s a moment, less than a second, where he cannot believe that this can be real. Killian ran from this woman, when he dearly wanted to hold her close, he left her to keep her safe to keep her _whole_. And this _cannot be._

Neal slings an arm across him. “Sorry, mate, if I’d known how special her blood was going to be — well, I’d probably have killed her anyway.”

Neal’s words break the spell.

It’s hard to know whether he’s Hook or Killian right now, he’s both, and they are both fuelled by pure rage.

How dare Neal defy him like this? How fucking dare he destroy her? 

His hand tightens on the now-empty decanter. He drank it all. It’s _her_ blood, and this bloody wanker took it. 

He smashes the decanter against the wall behind him and throws Neal back against it. He jams the broken glass into Neal’s shoulder and slams his arm up against his throat.

“How fucking dare you,” Killian hisses in Neal’s face. “She was _mine._ If I let her leave —”

Neal laughs mirthlessly. “Oh please, the Hook I know would never let a conquest leave.” Killian drives the glass deeper into his flesh. Neal wails.

“That was not your choice to make,” Killian spits in his face, “I should kill you.”

“You can’t,” Neal whimpers.

“Get out of my fucking sight.”

He releases Neal, who scrambles away muttering and scowling. He turns back to Emma’s mutilated body. This was so brutal and he finds that he cannot look at her, despite all the terrible things he’s done over the centuries, this feels worse.

This was unnecessary. This was cruel. This was a message to him.

A tear falls from his eye as he drops to his knees as the horror of it overwhelms him. He really wanted to let her be, but nothing good ever comes of him mixing with mortals. He shouldn’t have looked at her, shouldn’t have kissed her, shouldn’t have tasted her.

Oh God — her _taste._

He feels something seeping into his jeans. 

_Blood._

That scent, _Emma’s scent,_ and now he knows how she tastes. Hook’s eyes turn black and he can’t help but fall to the floor to lap up her precious life that brought him so much joy and has been so callously and carelessly spilled.

“God, you’ll lick anything, won’t you?”

Killian looks up in shock, blood dripping from his lips to see Emma standing before him. She’s simply dressed in a white tank, jeans and a jacket as red as his own lips. Her arms are folded across her chest and it’s clear that despite the teasing, she’s pissed.

“Emma?” He climbs to his feet. “I — fuck —” he notices her eyes flicking to his lips with disgust and he licks them — can’t waste the blood, _her_ blood — then wipes them with the back of his hand. He looks at her face, trying to read her. “How are you?”

“I’m great thanks,” she says.

“Really?”

“No, Zoolander, I’m fucking dead and I’m stuck with my last one night stand who’s lapping at my blood like it’s a fucking popsicle and I don’t even want to know why you would do that.”

“What?” Killian gawps at her, how on earth does she not know what he is by now? “Are you serious?”

“Er, yes, it seriously has been a spectacularly shit day.” She gestures to her body strung up against the wall. He notices that she doesn’t look at herself, he can’t say he blames her.

“I mean, you don’t know what I am?”

“A prick?”

“A vampire,” Killian clarifies, annoyed by her childishness.

“Right, whatever, Edward.” She rolls her eyes at him and Hook hisses at the insult. Killian struggles to hold him back.

“Well why do you think Neal drained your blood?” Killian asks, exasperated. “He clearly saw us together last night and thought this —” he waves his hand at her body “— would please me.”

“I’m dead because of you?”

“Well, not directly, but yes, he clearly wanted me back on the blood.”

“You mean _my_ blood? He wanted you to drink my blood? My death is your fault.”

Killian grits his teeth. “Tangentially.”

“Were you _tangentially_ drinking my blood too?”

The blood, her blood, god it tasted so good, and it’s so much easier not to give a fuck about a little light murder when he’s high on that sweet taste —

Killian pushes that thought down, no, _no,_ he can’t be distracted now. Not if he’s going to get Emma out of here.

“Look, I’m loving this chat, but I suggest that we get you the fuck out of here before they notice that you haven’t passed on.”

“What are they going to do? Kill me again?”

Emma’s got a fair point, vampires tend to not care much about ghosts, but something about the thought of leaving her with Neal makes Killian feel deeply uncomfortable in a way he can’t totally explain.

It probably has something to do with what happened the last time Neal got his hands on her.

“It’s just — it’s best that you don’t stay in the house full of murderers until you pass on,” Killian finally says.

Emma gives him a look of deep contempt, she might as well have “oh fuck off you wanker” written on her forehead for the way he can read her expression. “I should leave with the murderer instead?”

“I’m not —” he starts, before realising that isn’t a game of semantics he’s ever going to win. “Well, I didn’t murder _you.”_

“Lucky me.”

Killian rubs at his face in exasperation, but tries again. “I feel somewhat responsible for your current condition —” Emma scoffs, mutters “gee, why could that be?” but Killian chooses to ignore it “— and I’d like to help you pass on to make amends. You can stay with me until that happens.”

“You keep saying pass on like I’m meant to know what you mean.” Emma’s frowning at him, looking to Killian’s keen eye more wary and vulnerable than truly pissed off.

“When people die, they pass on, unless they have unfinished business and then they just — stay here.”

“Really? What about heaven and all that?”

“Well that would be the ‘on’ to which I referred,” Killian says dryly, his patience wearing thin.

“Like a Harry Potter thing?”

“If that makes this easier for you to process, sure, like a Harry Potter thing. The point is, something is keeping you here, and we need to figure out what it is —”

“So this is all real?”

Killian stops short at this question and really looks at her. She’s biting her lip and she looks — she looks small. Small, and alone. He’s not sure what he can say to this. He doesn’t know how to console the dead.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last, “I’m sorry, but yes, you are dead. You’re dead and —” he sighs, pushes his own feelings aside “— and what happened to you is a tragedy.”

“I’m dead,” Emma says the words like she’s trying them on for size. “I’m dead and —” she breaks off, he watches as she swallows hard. He waits, this is her time. “I'm dead and I need to move on.”

“Aye. Beats being stuck with me.” He forces a light tone, as if this was a great joke. Emma nods and his heart sinks at the sight. “I’ll help you figure out why —”

“I know why I’m here,” Emma interrupts.

This may be the first good news he’s heard since he woke up that day. Some people take years, _decades,_ figuring out their unfinished business, let alone resolving it. “You do? Excellent.”

“I came to Nottingham looking for an old family friend,” Emma says, her face surprisingly grim.

“A little reunion for you? Lovely. We’ll find them, you can say hello — and goodbye, I suppose — Belle can help us there, she’s a touch psychic — and on you pass.”

“— so they could help me find the parents who abandoned me at birth and who I’ve been actively searching for for years.”

Bloody hell. No wonder she looked grim.

Killian stares at her, hard. “Just how old are you?”

“28.”

Oh shit.

“And how long exactly have you been looking for your parents?”

“12 years.”

_Oh shit._

“Bloody hell,” Killian says at last. “Well, I hope you like werewolves, love, you might be living with one for some time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading - I've loved all of your comments!! What did you think of this chapter?

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! What was your favourite line?


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